Prompt - A Day at the Beach
by Mrs.Dickens713
Summary: A response to a wonderful prompt from Chelsie Anon. How will Mr. Carson enjoy his day at the beach?


**A/N: Like most of us, I have been scrutinizing the final 1:06 minutes of the Christmas special and subsequently turning/churning ideas in my feverish brain. It took another excellent prompt from Chelsie Anon to help me put a few of my scattered thoughts to paper. I hope you enjoy. As always, I do not own any of these characters, more's the pity. I would certainly bring them out to play more often.**

Everything went to the cottage last week, just a few bits & bobs on the desk to be packed. Reaching for the cotton wool, my fingers caress the familiar ridges of the spiral seashell, the chips & dings from knocking about on the desk over the years. I feel a bit like this old shell, battered & worn but still solid & reliable. Thinking back to the outing, of walking hand in hand into the sea, combing the beach for seashells at sunset, a turning point in my life, our life…what happens next?

Rubbing the shell in his fingers, his mind drifted to his memories surrounding that day. Of course she'd thought him foolish, very foolish, for considering an outing to a science museum or the Crystal Palace. Even his suggestion that they tour Madame Tussaud's was greeted with an eyeroll. She took pity on him, as he had known she would. He could never simply ask her where _she_ might prefer to spend the day. Such a question would have made her uncomfortable, and likely she would have given an answer that she thought would best please the others and him. After so many long years of working together, he knew her ways nearly as well as his own. Nearly. He'd given her several suggestions, then given her a few days to come up with a plan. When he'd spotted the picture postcard of the beach tacked to his bulletin board, he knew he'd found his answer. He had carried her parting words with him along to bed: "I knew you'd get there in the end." He found her smugness endearing.

The day itself was sunny and hot, a rare combination for London, and he was extremely grateful. The staff were like children, chattering excitedly over breakfast. He made to quiet them, but Mrs. Hughes nodded imperceptibly, so he let the matter drop. One day of high spirits wouldn't bring the house down around them. He noticed that Mrs. Hughes was wearing a new blouse; at least it was new to him. He was seldom home during the season and had little opportunity to observe her summer wardrobe. The blue of her blouse made her eyes seem more brilliant than usual and she smiled more easily this morning. He could tell she was pleased to be going to the seaside, even if it was just for a few hours.

"Have you any special plans for the day, Mrs. Hughes?"

She tilted her head and his heart seized for a long, deliciously painful moment. "No special plans," she replied. "I'll just enjoy being near the water." She turned to face him. "And you, Mr. Carson? Have you any special plans for the day?"

Her gaze was so brilliantly piercing that he found himself clearing his throat and answering her more curtly than he had intended. "No. No special plans. I'm merely planning to oversee the staff to ensure that they properly enjoy Her Ladyship's generosity."

Mrs. Hughes averted her face, but he could tell by the way her shoulders rose that she was indulging in a mighty eyeroll. "I'm sure they can manage to enjoy the day all on their own, Mr. Carson," she said crisply and busied herself with buttering and eating what was left of her toast.

_My God in heaven_, he thought morosely. _Why must I always make a meal of my shoe leather when she's about?_ He'd played the role of Mr. Carson for so long that he found it nearly impossible to act naturally around her, particularly when the others were there. In the evenings, with a glass of wine or sherry and soft lighting, he was able to loosen Mr. Carson's iron grip on Charlie, just a little, mind you, but he couldn't deny that, more than the alcohol or the lighting, it was she who provoked him into what could properly be considered lapses. Certainly not serious lapses when reviewed independently, but when taken together represented a significant breach of his defenses. She was the only one in many, many years who made him want those defenses breached. He shook himself. The breakfast table was neither the time nor the place to indulge in such thoughts. There was a great deal to do in order to organize the staff into some semblance of decorum that befitted the house and the family. He rose, and the others followed suit immediately.

He consulted his pocket watch. "The train leaves in three quarters of an hour," he began coolly. "I shall expect you all in the hall in one quarter of an hour." There was the beginnings of scuffles and the sound of chairs being pushed in hurriedly. He held up his hand. "Quietly now, quietly. There is no need to scamper about like a hobbledehoy. Remember the house you serve and act accordingly. I shall see you all shortly." In spite of his words, the younger members of staff scampered off like rabbits. He turned to Mrs. Hughes, but she was just as quick as the youngsters. He could see her retreating to Mrs. Butte's sitting room, presumably to gather her things. He smiled at the thought of her excitement. He could share in that, even if it was from a distance.

*CE*

The journey to Brighton was pleasant; he sat near Mrs. Hughes, but thought it best not to share a seat with her. To do so wouldn't be proper. No, he allowed that she might prefer to sit with Mrs. Patmore. He noticed that she was her usual, unflappable self, though quieter than he expected. Mrs. Patmore kept up a steady stream of chatter, so perhaps it wasn't quite so odd that Mrs. Hughes hardly spoke the entire way from London to Brighton Beach.

Once they all departed the train, he had a devil of a time herding them all to the shore and he finally admitted defeat, albeit privately, and settled himself in a corner out of the way where he could observe to his heart's content. Some of the lads were playing football on the sand. He could see Mr. Bates and Anna (he never could bring himself to call her Mrs. Bates. She was Anna, little Anna, and she always would be) leisurely strolling the promenade. He scanned the crowds until he settled on the one person he wanted to see. He saw her in the distance, removing her stockings and shoes, preparing to wade into the sea. She was alone; a quick glance to his left assured him that Mrs. Patmore was busy chatting with Daisy. He didn't think anyone else would dare to approach her. Could he, though? Her feet were so small and delicate; her ankles were beautifully turned. He felt his face flush and averted his eyes. A gentleman shouldn't have such thoughts about a lady. Of course, she'd as much as told him he was no gentleman all those years ago, and he had agreed with her. Nevertheless, she was a lady, but perhaps he could…no, it was foolhardy. It would bring talk, make him a figure of fun and who knew what effect such talk would have on her. No, best just observe from a distance. But then she turned her head, a brilliant smile on her face, the wind blowing a few tendrils of her hair that was tucked underneath a charming straw hat that he'd never seen before. Right. He began to untie his shoelaces.

*CE*

The water was cold, unexpectedly cold, and he let out a little moan. She turned to him, unsurprised, as if she'd always known he would seek her out.

"Come on," she said, with a tilt of her head. "I dare you."

"If I get my trousers wet?" _Oh gods, you stupid, blathering bloody git. Stop talking!_

"If you get them wet, we'll dry them," she replied, exasperated.

"Suppose I fall over?" _Really, stop talking_.

"Suppose a bomb goes off? Suppose we're hit by a falling star? You can hold my hand. Then we'll both go in together."

"I think I will hold your hand." _Smooth, Charlie. Very smooth_. "It'll make me feel a bit steadier."

"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."

She wouldn't look at him, but there was a gentle lilt to her voice, a softness in it that he rarely heard. Could she mean? What could she mean? He tossed her a line. "I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little risqué." Would she grab hold?

"And if I did?" His heart lurched as she reached for his hand. He stood there, mute and helpless, but he managed to grab her hand before she could change her mind. "We're getting on Mr. Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little." And she gave a brisk nod of her head before leading him out into the water, steadier than he'd been in quite some time.


End file.
